The Power and the Dream
by encendres
Summary: Rarely do arrogant, overly idealistic teenage radicals end up causing this much trouble so early on. AD/GG.
1. Armistice Day

A/N: Credit for the characters and basic plot goes to J.K. Rowling, who overuses adverbs far more gracefully than I, and to Isaac Deutscher for the title. Feel free to leave a note if you come across any grammar mistakes, misspellings, or typos that I missed.

09/07/11: this chapter was going to be the epilogue, but I like it much better at the beginning.

–

_"Power is not a means; it is an end. One does not establish a dictatorship in order to safeguard a revolution; one makes the revolution in order to establish the dictatorship. The object of persecution is persecution. The object of torture is torture. The object of power is power."_

_- George Orwell, _1984

–

NOVEMBER 1918

Gellert sat alone in the back of the pub, listening to the rain and the quiet, distant hum of conversation, drinking nothing, and waiting. In the rest of London, the Muggles were merry and raucous and alive with celebration, but here among his own kind, hardly anyone cared. It was Monday night no different than the previous Monday or the next Monday, and all of the drunkards drank themselves to death as they did on any other day. Half-an-hour passed. An hour. Two. Shortly before midnight, most of the patrons had begun to empty their glasses and bottles and tankards, mumble their goodbyes, and stumble off into the night, bleary-eyed and stinking richly of booze. The barmaid, a plump, freckled red-head, came over to his table and said:

"We close in an hour. I don't know who you're waiting for, but I don't think he's going to show up."

"Oh, he'll come," said Gellert.

He came striding in eventually, the midnight-blue colour of his robes brilliant even in the dim, dirty light of the pub, and slid into the side of the booth opposite Gellert, crossing his hands on the table before him. He was slim, tall, and regal, oddly incongruous in this miserable, half-empty little hole-in-wall. Gellert was suddenly conscious of how in-place _he _looked, scrawny and shabby as any other shiftless Bohemian sort, dressed in threadbare robes, his hair lank and receding slightly beneath his cap despite his relative youth.

"Good evening, Gellert," he said. The light glinted off the golden rims of his glasses and transformed the lenses into flat, impenetrable disks of white.

"Why Albus," said Gellert cheerfully. "You've grown a beard. I liked you better clean-shaven."

"I see you haven't lost any of your charm," said Albus. "How are you on this fine Armistice Day?"

"Armistice Day? Is that what the Muggles are calling it now?" Gellert asked. "Bah. Fifteen years from now, they'll be at war again. How are you? You're teaching now, aren't you?"

"I am," said Albus. "And I take it you're still fomenting revolution? Don't answer that; of course you are. May I ask you've returned to England, and why you've asked me out for a drink? Speaking of which _–_" He called the barmaid over and ordered a bottle of firewhiskey for the two of them. She looked mildly annoyed, as if she were itching to go home and crawl in into bed at this hour.

"I have it," said Gellert, glancing around to make sure no one was listening, leaning forward, and lowering his voice so that it was hardly more than a whisper. "The Elder Wand."

"There's no need to clarify what you meant by 'it'; I know exactly what you meant," said Albus. The barmaid set a dusty bottle and two glasses before them; when she had left, Albus drew his wand and, with a quick and effortless arc of his hand, poured the firewhiskey for the both of them, saying, "And I wouldn't boast _–_ don't you remember the nursery story? The brother who found it had his throat slit for parading it around. Was it with the wandmaker in Lvov?" He drank, though his eyes, large and luminously blue, remained on Gellert.

"Yes," said Gellert. "Thank you very much _–_ I never would have found it if not for your help."

"You've come an awfully long way to brag."

"You know that isn't why I'm here. I want to extend an offer: come and fight with me again. It would be an honour to have someone as talented and powerful as you by my side."

"No," said Albus.

"You aren't a Muggle-lover now, I hope."

"As a matter of fact, I am. I'm disappointed, Gellert; I thought you would have abandoned that line of thought by now. It's awfully illogical, don't you agree?"

"Your brother was right: you _are_ a condescending arse, if you'll pardon my language. Vainglory is an unattractive quality in a man, Albus."

"As is an unbridled lust for power. Go back to Petrograd, or whatever the Muggles call it now. I'm afraid you've wasted your time."

"Very well," said Gellert. "Should you change your mind, I'll be in Berlin."

"You've given up on Russia?"

"Haven't you heard? The Muggles have had a revolution. It's become difficult for me to operate there. The War has left Germany destitute; I'm sure I'll find supporters in the Wizarding community there. I'm sure the Muggles there will be looking for someone to lift them from the rubble, too."

"I hope you aren't planning on interfering with Muggle politics. You know how poorly that ended for that Russian fellow who tried to bed the Tsarina."

"I'm not that stupid. You know as well as I that any grand plan involving sex goes poorly."

Albus stared coldly out at Gellert over the rim of his glass. There was no anger in his gaze, no regret or grief or hatred, only an inscrutable iciness. "If you think that's why I refuse to take up arms in your service, you are wrong. I will never fight alongside a bigot and a murderer _–_ "

"Murderer? It was you who _–_ "

Albus cut him off: "No. This has gone on long enough." His voice was stern and clear, but beneath the schoolmasterish facade of his voice, something had broken, and Gellert, unable to help himself, smirked. Albus, half-stumbling, rose from the booth and departed without so much as another word, leaving Gellert alone in the dim light and the silence. Gellert fumbled in his pocket for a few sickles, which he laid on the table, and rushed out into the rain after Albus, catching him hardly feet away from the door and jerking him around.

"What is it about you and good-byes? Why do you never say them?"

Albus' face was pale, his mouth a thin, paler line cut across it. Gellert's hand was still on Albus' shoulder, but he made no attempt to remove it. "How rude of me. Good-bye, Gellert. Now, kindly let go of me; I can't Disapparate with you holding on to me."

"Until we meet again, Albus." Still clutching his shoulder, Gellert leaned forward and kissed his cheek; Albus pushed him away and disappeared from sight.


	2. The Gadfly

MAY 1899

Ilya Yanovsky was an ugly, haughty, ignorant boy with a vastly over-inflated sense of his own ability and not an ounce of intelligence. Gellert politely informed him of these failings between jinxes and counter-jinxes, lunging and stabbing theatrically at the air with his wand, pursuing him further down the narrow corridor. Yanovsky's face was a violent pink and his already over-prominent eyes bulged even further from their sockets.

"_Stupefy_!" he cried; Gellert stepped aside and the bolt of red light hit a stone pillar behind him, blasting a good-sized chunk from it. Someone behind Gellert shrieked and then burst into a fit of nervous laughter. Yanovsky had told all of his friends and most of his acquaintances about the duel days beforehand, although Gellert was sure most of the people there had shown up just to watch the rat-faced Muscovite make a fool of himself.

"Weak, Yanovsky!" said Gellert, tucking an unruly blond curl behind his ear and silently casting a curse. He was grinning broadly. Yanovsky's hands flew up to cover his face with such speed that he nearly stabbed himself in the eye with his wand.

"My eyes – shit, Grindelwald, what did you do?" he shouted. He rubbed his eyes, which were red and watering profusely, with his sleeve.

"Conjunctivitis curse!" said Gellert. "We learned it last year; don't you remember?" He cast a stunning spell; this, like the last one, missed its intended target, but only by virtue of luck. Yanovsky had stumbled sideways into the wall at the last second.

"I think you've blinded me, you little shit!" he said. "Coward – bastard – _mudblood –_"

"What did you call me?" Gellert cried.

"You know very well what I called you! Everyone knows your mother's a goddamned Muggle!"

"Shut up!"

"I'm surprised you try and hide it – it's so _obvious_ –"

"_Crucio_!"

Yanovsky crumpled, his face contorted with pain and deathly scarlet, clutching his head and wailing. It was a shrill, horrible sound. Gellert advanced on him, his wand aimed squarely at his opponent's head. Yanovsky, who had gone dead white, his shriek of pain now more of a hiccupping, shameless sobbing, curled into himself, as if that might give him some protection. Someone in the crowd cried out, but Gellert was only dimly aware of that; he was flushed, in love with the spectacle, and his grey eyes were bright. With a nearly invisible flick of his wand, he lifted Yanovsky up and flung him against the ceiling like a rag doll, pale, limp, still screaming –

"That's quite enough, Grindelwald!"

Gellert dropped his arm, breathing heavily, and Yanovsky dropped too, hitting the marble with a nauseating thud. His screams had given way to deep, wracking sobs, which Gellert thought sounded rather childish.

"Would someone run and fetch Professor Vrubel, please?" said the headmistress. Gellert realized that it was she who had ordered him to stop, and despite the fact that he knew there was probably some sort of dreadful punishment in store for him, he wasn't frightened; in fact, he felt rather curiously pleased that she had seen him perform a difficult curse. "Grindelwald, come with me," she said, putting a hand on his shoulder, turning him gently and steering him away from Yanovsky, who had stopped crying and looked dead.

–

When they had reached her office, Professor Dolohova ordered Gellert to sit in the same tone of voice one might use to scold a misbehaving dog. The headmistress was a very tall woman – Gellert, who was neither tall nor short, came up to her chin – and pale, with heavy brows and deep-set black eyes. Her expression was inscrutable. Gellert couldn't read her at all; however, he had the awful sense that _she_ could read _him_, and was pulling his mind apart just by looking at him, prying into things nobody ought ever to have seen. Every inch of him was tense and feverish, and he could not properly catch his breath; the euphoria had subsided, and a caustic shame had crept in to fill its place.

He broke her gaze, and she said: "Oh, Gellert, Gellert, what _am_ I to do with you?" There was a vague note of disappointment in her voice. "Do you realize what you have just done?"

"Of course. Though, in retrospect, I think it may have been just a bit harsh." He smiled faintly.

Dolohova took a seat at her desk and laced her fingers together. "I'm considering expulsion, Gellert."

"You wouldn't!" said Gellert, sounding younger and more frightened than he would have liked. In his lap, his hands twitched.

"Believe me when I say I don't want to let you go," said the headmistress. "You're a brilliant, brilliant boy - such a shame, though, that you used your tremendous intellect to torture a classmate . . . where did you learn to perform the Cruciatus curse, anyway?"

"A book," said Gellert. "We learned about it in class, and my curiosity was piqued. Surely you must know, Professor, that it's legal in the Russian Empire? "

"I know. However, the use of it on another student is grounds for expulsion, and I'm afraid I can't bend the rules, even for Durmstrang's best and brightest. I really do wish I could give you a second chance."

"I thought Durmstrang was highly tolerant of the Dark Arts. And you can't possibly expel me for using a perfectly legal curse in a duel."

"The Dark Arts are tools, Gellert; you can't cast curses on whomever you please, whenever you please. It isn't civilized. There are situations in which the use of the Cruciatus curse would be justified, but a duel with a schoolmate is not such a situation."

"Yanovsky insulted me." Gellert realized how painfully silly the excuse sounded the moment it left his lips.

"Again, _not _a situation in which the Cruciatus curse would be justified. You tortured him because he insulted you? Was this a proper duel, or a schoolyard fight? As I said before, it's uncivilized. _Muggles_ get in schoolyard fights. We don't. I would hope that you, of all people, would know how to control yourself."

"You would ruin me, Professor. How am I ever going to find a job if I haven't graduated? It'd be a terrible waste, surely you – " He was aware now that he was pleading, but this was his education, his entire life – this was something worth prostrating himself at the headmistress' feet for, and he clutched wildly at it, though he could feel it slip through his fingers –

"Gellert," she said softly, silencing him mid-sentence. "You do not need to worry about not finishing your education; you probably know more than any seventh-year here. And you won't be wasted. There are other places for you, and other people who would be thrilled to have you as an ally." She paused, and Gellert waited for her to offer some sort of explanation as to where those places and to whom those people were. However, she did not elaborate further and instead waved him off. "Go and pack your things and return here when you've finished; I'll arrange a portkey for you in the meantime. You are from Prague, yes? I know I have your address on file, somewhere."

He nodded and stood. "Professor, what do you mean, other places? Other people?"

She waved dismissively again. "You're a clever boy; you'll find them."

He turned, fuming but unable to protest, and was about to leave when the headmistress spoke again, this time with a smallish, crooked smile. "And Gellert? I would advise you not to use the Cruciatus curse when you get home. It is illegal in Austria-Hungary, and expulsion is a mere slap on the wrist compared to the punishment the authorities there will bestow upon you should you lose your temper again . . ."

Gellert returned her smile. "Well then, I shan't lose it, shall I?"

Outside the headmistress' office, in a fit of irritation, Gellert drew his wand. Upon the smooth, unblemished stone of the wall near her door, he etched a strange little insignia, rather like a misshapen _A_. No one would recognize this symbol now, but he was positive that in a few years' time, every Durmstrang boy who passed through here would see it and think of his name. He brushed the grit from it and left to collect his things.

–

Professor Dolohova was reading when Gellert returned to her office with his trunk. She did not say a word or even look up from her book; she only gestured to a blank sheet of parchment on her desk. Gellert shut his eyes and touched it gingerly, steeling himself against the sensation of being rudely pulled elsewhere, which always made him feel a bit nauseated. When he opened his eyes again, he was standing outside his father's shop in Prague, the greyish runt of the street, shoved unceremoniously between two much taller, much whiter buildings. It was a smallish, cramped, dreary little place with a dark red tile roof and windows badly in need of a washing. The shop itself was closed and dark, but the lights were on in the apartment above it. Gellert hadn't realized how late it was – if the shop was closed, it had to be past six in the evening. His father was probably smoking his pipe and reading the Muggle paper, content and lazy. Gellert tried to peer inside, but from his position, he could only see a little of the ceiling and the tops of the walls.

But it was of no matter: he wasn't going to stay here. The senior Grindelwald would never know he had returned to Prague, and the headmistress would never know he had left it. Gellert closed his eyes again and turned on his heel, his trunk knocking painfully against his shin. He had never Apparated to somewhere he had never been before, and he hoped that repeating the name of the town inside his mind like a prayer would take him there and not leave half of his body in street in Austria-Hungary.

Gellert found himself standing in the middle of a narrow road, in the shadows cast by a row of narrow-trunked trees. The light was the warm, buttery-yellow colour of late afternoon. Nothing hurt and he didn't think he was bleeding, which was probably a good sign. He touched his face to make sure all of it had arrived with him, and checked his pocket for his wand. His trunk lay in the dirt beside him. As far as he could tell, everything was in order, and he had not left so much as a fingernail behind. If he had Apparated to the right place, he would be very pleased with himself.

He picked up his trunk – normally he would have levitated it, but he knew this town was ridden with Muggles and he wasn't sure whom he would meet on this little stretch of road – and headed off in the direction he was pointed. After a while, his arm started to ache from the strain of hauling all of his clothes and schoolbooks, but in a matter of minutes the dirt beneath his feet became cobblestones, and he came upon a cluster of shops and small houses that could generously be called a town. Gellert had no idea where the person he intended to meet with was, or where anyone was, for that matter; the streets were deserted. He wandered around a little and came upon the town square, which was mostly deserted, save a couple of somewhat grubby-looking boys in caps and trousers were chasing an equally grubby-looking dog, trying to grab the poor thing by the tail, by the looks of it, and a woman who was as tall and black-haired as Professor Dolohova, finely dressed, but with a stooped, defeated air about her. She didn't appear to be related to either one of the boys.

One of the boys was eying Gellert suspiciously, and he realized rather belatedly that he was still wearing his crimson-coloured Durmstrang robes and must have looked terribly out-of-place. Gellert approached the woman instead and doffed his hat to her.

"Pardon," said Gellert, conscious of the fact that he still couldn't quite manage a proper accent. It was good, but not perfect; his vowels still sounded a little odd.

The woman looked around the square and asked, "Yes?" rather cautiously, drawing the one syllable out into two. She was quite lovely, and had the same finely crafted features and pale, sad eyes as a Russian Orthodox icon. Up close, the poor woman looked absolutely exhausted, and could have been anywhere from twenty-five to forty-five years old.

"This is Godric's Hollow, yes?" Gellert asked.

She nodded.

"I'm looking for a woman named Bathilda Bagshot; do you know where she lives?"

"Yes, she lives in the last house on Bishop Lane," she said, pointing down a street to Gellert's left. One of the boys had managed to get ahold of the dog, which was now yelping and trying to wriggle free from the boy's skinny arms.

"Thank you," said Gellert, smiling a little, and the woman set off in the opposite direction at a brisk trot, her dark skirts swishing around her ankles. He switched his trunk to his other hand and was about to leave himself when the boy who hadn't caught the dog sidled up to him.

"You looking for Batty Bagshot?" he asked.

"Bathilda Bagshot," said Gellert.

The boy chewed his lip; Gellert looked at him expectantly. After a moment the boy leaned closer to him and said, in a voice that was barely above a whisper, "Careful, she's a bit of a nutter. I mean, if you couldn't tell by the name."

"It's not polite to call people that, nor is it to eavesdrop. Run along, now," Gellert said, straightening himself. Almost certainly Muggles, those children. The boy glowered at him, but Gellert left before he had a chance to offer another rude comment.

–

The little cottage at the end of Bishop Lane didn't look like the sort of house a "nutter" would live in. One of the front windows was open, and through it Gellert could see the edge of a lace curtain that shivered slightly in the wind. The steep roof was mossy, and the garden in front and well-tended and a lively green, surrounded by a squat stone wall with a wooden gate in the middle. The gate was unlocked, so Gellert let himself in the garden and knocked on the front door. He set his trunk down, glad to be rid of it for the time being and give his arms a rest.

"Just a minute!" a woman called from inside and Gellert heard a chair scrape against the floor and the patter of footsteps. A moment later, the door opened, and Gellert found himself face-to-face with a woman who looked absolutely nothing like him. She was quite short, as slim and shapeless as a little girl beneath her robes, which were an indefinable muddy greyish-blue colour. Her hair, which was as dark as Gellert's was fair, was liberally streaked with grey and piled atop her head. Despite her thinness, her face was round, and all of her features seemed slightly too small for it.

"Bathilda Bagshot?" he asked.

"Yes," she said. "And you are . . . ?"

"Gellert Grindelwald," he said, smiling. She looked confused, so he added, "Your great-nephew," hoping that she knew that she even had a great-nephew. He didn't remember ever have seen her in his life.

Bagshot pursed her lips and peered out at him. Gellert was halfway to apologizing and saying that he had made a mistake, but a flash of recognition crossed her face and she exclaimed, "Ah! Gerulf's son! Goodness, forgive me for not recognizing you, I haven't seen you since you were the size of a breadbox – do come in, I was just about to make tea –" She opened the door more fully for him to let him in, pulled a rickety little chair out for him, and bustled about her kitchen, lighting a fire beneath the teakettle and sending teacups and saucers soaring through the air from the cabinet. They hit the table with such a clatter Gellert thought they might break, but they were fine. Bathilda's house was dark, a bit shabby, and smelled distinctly of boiled cabbage and something burnt, but it was surprisingly well-organized and devoid of clutter. The only things on the counter were a row of labeled jars organized from largest to smallest, like a family of _matryoshki_.

Bathilda took the only other chair and folded her hands on the table before her. "So, Gellert," she said. "May I ask what brings you here?"

"I'm spending the summer here," said Gellert.

"You are?" She looked confused again.

"Didn't my father send you an owl?" Gerulf didn't even own an owl and had, of course, never said anything about Gellert spending the summer with Bathilda, but she didn't have to know that. It would be fine as long as she had a spare bedroom.

"I never received anything," she said. "But it's a quite long way from Prague to here, and it's quite possible the poor owl got lost. You're welcome to stay here as long as you'd like; it's always nice to see a relative, even an unexpected one. I've been using the spare bedroom as an office – I'm in the middle of updating _A History of Magic _for the turn of the century, you see – so it's a bit of a mess right now, but you're welcome to it."

"Thank you," said Gellert. The teakettle shrieked, and Bathilda summoned it to the table and poured tea for the both of them. Gellert was surprised to see Bathilda use magic for nearly everything; his father preferred to do household tasks and little domestic things like pouring tea without magic. He was strange that way.

"You're – sixteen now, yes?" asked Bathilda.

He nodded and drank his tea. "Seventeen in November," he added.

"Remind me to introduce you to the Dumbledore brothers, dear; they won't be home from school for another fortnight or so, but I'm sure you'll get along wonderfully, and I'm sure their conversation is far more interesting than mine. They'll be thrilled to have you here – there aren't a lot of witches and wizards your age in this town. Most of us are getting a bit on in years. How are your studies? Your father was as a clever one, if I remember correctly – my sister was always writing to me how he was doing this and that, though it's perfectly all right if that's not your particular area of expertise." She spoke very quickly, and Gellert was having a bit of trouble following her sentences. He had learnt English at Durmstrang and had read it and spoken it regularly, but the sort of English Bathilda spoke seemed to be of a somewhat different breed than what he had learned.

"Oh, I, er - I'm at the top of my class." He didn't see any reason to tell her that he had been expelled hours earlier, though he had actually been at the top of his class when he was enrolled, so it was only a partial lie. Had it really been hours? It seemed like it had been ages ago. He realized he couldn't remember when he had last eaten, but he wasn't hungry at all, only tired. He wanted to find a quiet place and sleep for days.

"Wonderful! Then I think you shall get along very well with Albus – he's the older of the brothers I mentioned earlier, a bit shy, but brilliant. Are you hungry, dear? I'm afraid I'm not the best cook, but I can work something out, I think."

"Oh, no thank you, I'm fine." Gellert was only half-listening, and it took him a moment to realize what she had asked and another moment to find the words to answer. "Actually, I've had a very busy day, and I'd really just like to sleep."

"Of course, of course," said Bathilda, standing. "No need to worry about your trunk, dear; I'll get it and you can follow me upstairs." She lifted the trunk into the air with a flourish of her wand and led its owner up the narrow stairs to a bedroom that was as small and neat as the rest of the house, despite what she had said about the mess. Beneath the slanted ceiling was a smallish wardrobe, an iron-framed bed, and a desk piled to the point of strain with books, ink bottles, quills, rolls of parchment, and a small empty birdcage that Gellert guessed housed an absent owl. Bathilda set his trunk beside the wardrobe and said something to the effect that there was a bathroom down the hall and on the right, bid him an early goodnight and left him alone in the welcome silence.

When she was gone, Gellert changed and buried himself beneath the sheets that also spelled, inexplicably, of boiled cabbage. The expulsion, all of the fury and despair seemed far away now; the exhaustion had overcome that, too, and he felt pleased with himself for having landed on his feet. How lucky he was, he thought as he fell asleep, that everything, for the most part, had worked out. Things always worked out in the end. Dolohova was right: there was a world for him – not in this town, perhaps, but this would be his stepping stone to it. For now, he was safe, but more importantly: he was free.


	3. Ariana

Gellert awoke promptly at six, as he and everyone else had done at Durmstrang, but lay in bed for a little while, feeling strange and only half-awake. It was probably the effect of having traveled such long distances in such a short period of time the day before, he thought, and he did his best to shake it off. He washed, dressed, ran a comb through his hair, and went downstairs. Bathilda, apparently also an early riser, was in the parlor, reading and chewing absentmindedly on her thumbnail.

"Good morning," she said as he passed, not looking up from her book. He returned the greeting and was about to scrounge around in the kitchen for something to eat, when he caught a glimpse of someone familiar out of the corner of his eye. He stopped. There were a handful of photographs in silver frames on the mantel, their subjects gazing serenely out at Gellert and moving only to adjust a strand of hair or their collars. They were almost all unfamiliar, save Bathilda, a sour-faced woman Gellert recognized as his grandmother, and the woman he had seen in the square the afternoon before. She looked to be a few years younger, though she still had the same somber air. In her arms was a tiny baby swaddled in white with a frilly bonnet that seemed comically at odds with its mother's solemnity, and beside her stood a fair-haired man in a mustache and dress robes whom Gellert took to be the baby's father. There were two other children in the family, two longish-haired and nigh-indistinguishable brothers with their mother's light eyes.

"Bathilda, if you don't mind me asking, who is the woman in this photograph?" Gellert asked. Bathilda set her book aside and came to join Gellert at the mantel, peering over his shoulder.

"That's Kendra Dumbledore, and those two boys are the ones I told you about yesterday. Why do you ask?"

"No reason, really," said Gellert. "I saw her yesterday, and was wondering who she was." The name was vaguely familiar; he wondered if Bathilda had mentioned them before. He paused. "Surely as a historian, you've heard of the Peverells?" It was part of the real reason he was in Godric's Hollow, and he figured now was as good a time to ask as any.

"Of course," she said. "The name died out years ago, but some of their descendants still live here. One of the three brothers of myth, Ignotus, I think, is buried in the cemetery." She stopped. "Oh, Gellert, don't tell me you're interested in the Deathly Hallows."

"Why not?"

"I'll save you a load of work: the three Peverell brothers existed. They were braggarts. While I will concede that there are records of a supremely powerful wand _–_ not that I would put much faith in that, either _–_ the cloak and the resurrection stone are unknown to history. Don't you think a stone with the power to bring back the dead would have changed the world had it existed? And if there really were an invincible wand, we'd probably be living under the thumb of some all-powerful tyrant as we speak. Not to disappoint you or anything."

"I'm not disappointed. I was just curious, that's all," said Gellert.

Bathilda smiled somewhat sheepishly. "I'm sorry; I didn't mean to be cross with you."

"Don't worry, you weren't cross at all _–_ "

"I don't want to send Durmstrang's best and brightest on a wild-goose chase. You've got better things to do with your time, Gellert. Here, come into the kitchen and I'll make you breakfast."

–

Bathilda was far too polite to ask Gellert to leave the house during the day, but he got the sense that she wanted to be alone with her work. Over the next several days, they fell automatically into a routine that suited them both; she would cook breakfast for the two of them in the morning, after which she would shut herself away in the spare bedroom to work and Gellert would leave the house and spend most of the day in town, returning in the evening for supper.

On the first day, he went down to the cemetery, which was a surprisingly pleasant little place, quiet and shaded by several old-growth yews and a chestnut tree. Bathilda was right: Ignotus Peverell was buried there, as were several others who bore his name. The last Peverell son had died at the ripe old age of ten nearly a hundred and fifty years ago. Gellert was somewhat disappointed. Of the three brothers, Ignotus was the one he was least interested in. According to legend, he had possessed a particularly durable invisibility cloak, which was, in Gellert's opinion, the least remarkable and least useful of the Deathly Hallows. But it was also the one Gellert surmised he had the best chance of finding: Ignotus passed the cloak down to his son, who passed it down to his son, and so on. Gellert wondered if the last Peverell boy had a sister, a cousin, some relative or another who had taken the cloak and passed it on to their children, or if it was buried with the little boy. At any rate, it was probably still in town somewhere, tucked neatly away in a trunk in someone's attic, its owner unaware of its true value. Gellert made a note to ask his great-aunt where he could find genealogy records to see if he could trace the Peverell family line. He hoped the cloak had been passed on to a relative; he wasn't really in the mood to desecrate a little boy's grave. That night, Bathilda told him rather sourly that she didn't deal in individual family histories and that she had no idea where he would be able to find the sort of information he was looking for.

Gellert's good mood deflated somewhat. He was at a loss as to what to do and where to go next. For nearly a year, he had been focused so intently on simply getting to Godric's Hollow that he hadn't really considered what he would do once he got there. He realized that he had been entertaining this idea in the back of his head that he would find _something_, a clue, a real lead, a linear road he could travel with obstacles he could overcome through sheer wit and cleverness. But of course that was absurd, and Gellert knew it now; the Peverells hadn't laid out a pre-planned quest, their holy objects had been lost and people spent their whole lives wandering aimlessly about searching for them.

So Gellert waited. He hated to be still, hated to be idle, and he could feel boredom beginning to creep up on him, bit by bit. He poked about Godric's Hollow, familiarizing himself with the little town, returning each afternoon to the cemetery as if it might yield more answers. Bathilda had a substantial library spanning several hundred years and multiple countries, containing books written by Muggles as well as witches and wizards, and Gellert took advantage of it, bringing a book with him into town every day. He penned political essays which even he admitted were terrible.

A week passed. The Hallows never left his mind; restlessness began to settle in him like an itch. And then, only partly figuratively, everything exploded.

Gellert was in the cemetery, beneath the sweeping armlike boughs of the chestnut tree, a Muggle philosophy book open in his lap, when a terrible noise like a thunderclap split the silence into pieces. He leapt up into the air, sending his book tumbling to the ground, swearing loudly when he realized that he had lost his composure and his place. The sound had begun and ended so suddenly that he wondered if he had really heard it, or if he had only imagined it. He hadn't: in the town square, men and women in linen and straw boaters were milling about uselessly, stunned and staring up at the cloud of dust and smoke that had settled over the town. The air was rich with the smell of burning.

Gellert's hand went to his wand inside the pocket of his coat, and he hazarded a guess as to where the fire was, his mind whirring. He pushed past others, cursing them silently: _why are you standing there and doing nothing_. Muggles, all of them, surely. And yet _–_ he was doing nothing either, because he couldn't, it was illegal _–_ _coward, don't let that stop you –_ out of nowhere, he saw Bathilda, her hands ink-stained, arguing furiously with a Muggle policeman. Dear God, if_ her _house was on fire _–_ it wasn't. For whatever reason, Bathilda was standing in the overgrown yard of a shabby, unfamiliar house, a section of its second storey up flames. The air was heavy with a roiling blackish smoke that stung Gellert's eyes and made him want to cough. There was a man beside her (the owner of the house, most likely, Gellert thought), who appeared to be on her side, pleading and gesticulating frantically.

Gellert ran to his great-aunt's side and asked her what was going on; most discourteously, the policeman answered for her.

"This doesn't concern you, young man," he said, and turned to the frightened-looking people in the street. "Please, everyone, move along, move along! The fire brigade will be here momentarily, and they need to get through."

"We need to get into that house," said the man beside Bathilda. "Please, I know who lives there and I think she may be injured _–_ "

"I'm sorry, but I can't let you in," the policeman said. "Please, move along."

"Absolutely not!" said Bathilda. Gellert drew his wand, and before the policeman had so much as a chance to notice, Gellert cast a Confunding Charm beneath his breath. The policeman blinked and looked around dazedly. Gellert turned to the smallish crowd and cast the same charm on them.

"What are you looking at? Go home, all of you!" said Gellert. He looked towards the policeman and added, "You too." The policeman nodded slowly and ambled off along with the crowd, all of whom seemed to have realized that they had more important things to do elsewhere.

"What on earth are you doing?" Bathilda hissed.

"As I believe you say here, 'desperate times call for desperate measures.' Quick, go inside," said Gellert. "More will be coming."

She shot him a look but dashed inside and upstairs, her companion at her heels, the two of them drawing their wands almost simultaneously. The interior of the house was even shabbier than the exterior, and almost entirely devoid of furniture and knickknacks and photographs and the like. The floral wallpaper was peeling, but Gellert would have been willing to bet that it had been in a similar state even before the fire, which mercifully seemed to be confined to one upstairs bedroom. Gellert felt a twinge of uneasiness: it was definitely a child's bedroom, though there was no child or parent to be seen anywhere _–_

"Oh, no," said the man. Gellert came to his side; what had appeared to be a bundle of dark fabric revealed itself to be the body of the woman Gellert had seen in the square on the first day, lying in a twisted heap like a discarded toy, her limbs bent in a way that no human limbs should ever be bent, as if she had been thrown violently, quite clearly dead.

"Ariana?" Bathilda called. "Ariana, dear, where are you?"

"Who _–_" Gellert started, but Bathilda held up her hand and shushed him.

An idea struck him, and Gellert fell to his knees and peered beneath the bed. Pale eyes, luminous and catlike, met his own and he almost leapt back up. "Ariana?" he asked, very softly, and a hand, thin, white, trembling, reached out from beneath the bed. He took it. Despite the heat, it was freezing. Bathilda and the neighbor were hovering over him. "It's all right, Ariana," said Gellert. "You're safe now. You can come out."

Still clutching at his hand, a little girl emerged from beneath the bed, pale and cold as death and shaking. She caught sight of the twisted body of her mother and began to cry, burying her face in her hands. Gellert took her into his arms and stood, surprised by how light she was. Bathilda and the man stared blankly at the two of them. The room was damp and smoldering.

"You didn't mention there was a little girl," said the man.

"She's _–_ ill," said Bathilda. "Kendra didn't want people knowing."

"A squib?" the man asked.

"Oh no!" said Bathilda. "No, not a squib. I told you, she's ill."

Ariana continued to cry, though her sobs were muffled by Gellert's shoulder.

"Gellert, we should take her home," said Bathilda softly. "Can you Apparate?"

He nodded. Bathilda vanished with a distinctive _pop_, and Gellert followed. They reappeared in the parlor. The man had apparently decided to come along as well, looking decidedly confused.

"What on earth is going on here?" he asked, as Gellert laid Ariana down on the couch and covered her tiny figure with a quilt. Somehow, despite everything, the poor thing had fallen asleep. She looked strikingly like her mother, and had the same long, haunted face and small mouth, though her hair was as light as corn silk. "How did you know she had a daughter, when I've lived next to her for years and I didn't?"

"I don't know, William," said Bathilda. "She confided in me, for some reason _–_ I knew the name, and I asked _–_ "

"What?" William said flatly. Gellert was as bewildered as he was.

"Oh dear," said Bathilda. "I suppose I should explain. Please, come into the kitchen _–_ I don't want to wake Ariana."


	4. Prince Ivan and the Firebird

Bathilda only had two chairs in the kitchen, so Gellert stood about awkwardly, leaning against the countertop with his arms folded across his chest.

"So, William," said Bathilda. "I take it you know what happened to Percival Dumbledore?"

"He attacked a couple of Muggle boys about eight years ago, didn't he?"

"Oh!" Gellert exclaimed. Both Bathilda and William looked toward him. He apologized, and explained, "I knew the name was familiar. I heard it mentioned when I was at Durmstrang. He was sentenced to Azkaban, yes?"

Bathilda nodded. "I didn't know the news had made it that far. Anyway, the attack wasn't unprovoked. Those Muggle boys did ... terrible things to Ariana. She's gifted, but she can't control it, the poor thing." She lowered her voice. "There is no doubt in my mind she _–_ Kendra died because _–_"

"Oh no," said William.

"Her poor boys," said Bathilda. "I believe the Hogwarts term just ended yesterday. Aberforth should be on his way home already, but I think Albus was planning on making a tour of the world with a friend of his . . . I'll have to contact him at once . . ." She put her head in her hands, and Gellert, despite the fact that he had only met her once, felt a cold twinge of grief for Kendra Dumbledore. Ariana was still asleep in the next room; how strange it was to think of the destructive power contained in that tiny body. Gellert supposed he ought to be afraid of her, but she seemed more pitiful, more sad than anything else, as much a victim as her mother. It wasn't her fault. Not at all.

William's voice was faintly tremulous. "If you will contact them, Bathilda, I'll make the funeral arrangements."

"Thank you, William." Bathilda drew her wand; a silvery terrier, insubstantial as smoke, burst into the air from the tip of it, and then bounded off somewhere, leaving a streak of phosphorescent silver-white across Gellert's field of vision. William bid them goodbye and disappeared as abruptly as the terrier.

In the parlor, Ariana shifted a little in her sleep _–_ there was the unmistakable faint_ pop _of Apparition and a young, very tall, auburn-haired man in pince-nez appeared from out of nowhere, mere inches in front of Gellert.

"So sorry," he said quickly, and turned on his heel to face Bathilda: "What is it, Miss Bagshot? Is Ariana all right?" His voice was sharp with worry.

"Albus, I think you should sit down," said Bathilda.

He complied, looking wan, his brows furrowed. His features were as striking as his mother's and sister's, though a rather longish nose saved him from being handsome.

"I'm sorry to be the one to tell you this," Bathilda began. "But your mother passed away earlier this afternoon."

"No," he said, shaking his head. "No, I can't believe it _–_" But he did; there were tears in his eyes.

"I'm so sorry," Bathilda said quietly.

"I-I _–_ no! I just spoke to her! What _–_ I don't understand ..."

"There was an _–_ accident. I'm so sorry, Albus."

He frowned and wiped uselessly at his eyes with his sleeve, straining, Gellert could see, to contain himself. "Where is Ariana?"

"She's asleep the parlor. She's fine."

"Oh, thank goodness." But no sooner had he said it than some inkling of what had happened must have crossed his mind; he blanched and even his breathing seemed to cease _–_ "She did it," he said.

"It was an accident _–_ she lost control . . ."

And now Albus wasn't even trying. He gave an awful, pitiful wail of grief and buried his face in his hands. Gellert wanted to look away; he felt as if he were intruding upon something very private.

"Albus?" Ariana had appeared at the doorway, small and silent as a ghost. Her brother looked up and offered her a faint smile. She came to him and laid her head atop his own, her blonde hair falling in wisps across their faces. Albus wiped his eyes with a handkerchief, and cleaned and re-adjusted his pince-nez. "Will you be all right?" Ariana asked.

"Yes," he said. "Yes, I'm all right now. I didn't mean to frighten you."

"William Potter from next-door said he would make the funeral arrangements," said Bathilda, leaning towards Albus and speaking very quietly, as if even a mention of the subject would procure another outburst from his sister. Ariana was preoccupied with her brother's hand; she turned it over idly in hers, playing with it.

"Good," said Albus. Some of his colour had returned, and he looked better already. "I'll speak with him when I can. I take it Aberforth is still on the train?"

"I think so. Would you like me to meet him in London?"

Albus shook his head. "No, I think he should hear it from me. Would you mind it if Ariana stayed with you while I meet Aberforth? I know it's _–_"

"It's not a problem, Albus," said Bathilda.

"Ariana," said Albus, speaking carefully and gently prizing his hand from her own. "I'm going to leave now to meet Aberforth at the train station, but I promise I shall be back very soon."

She nodded, and Albus stood, thanked Bathilda and bid her goodbye, and Disapparated, leaving his wide-eyed shadow of a sister staring wistfully at where he had been.

–

Kendra Dumbledore was buried on an unbearably hot Sunday afternoon. It was approaching the solstice; the days were long and the air was stagnant. The funeral-goers, most of whom, including Gellert, had only attended out of politeness, were wilting in their black suits, dabbing at their foreheads instead of their eyes with their handkerchiefs. Albus and Aberforth, cold and weary-looking and identical in their grief, their heads bowed as if in prayer, appeared to some of the few bereaved who really could have been called that. Ariana, who stood with Gellert and his great-aunt, stared fixedly at the coffin, frightened but clearly uncomprehending. If she knew that she had caused her mother's death, she didn't show it. She wore a straggly black ribbon in her hair, its colour stark against the white-blonde of her hair. The Muggle minister read from his Muggle Bible and said a few words for Kendra; her sons had clearly fed him a few lies about the circumstances of their mother's deaths, all for the sake of keeping things quiet, of course. _Of course _there hadn't been a 'long illness'; _of course _she wasn't with God, she was in the ground, dead, and if anyone was to blame for it, it was a couple of Muggle boys who had also condemned her little daughter to a sort of living death. It was enough to make one sick, but neither of her sons seemed to be angry, only miserable and very, very tired . . . Gellert clenched his fist, his nails digging into the flesh of his palm.

When the minister was finished and the funeral-goers had begun to disperse and return to their lives, Ariana began to cry. Aberforth rushed to her side, his brother at his heels, and held her tightly, smoothing her hair and murmuring reassurances. Albus was clutching his handkerchief so tightly that his knuckles were white, but he didn't cry.

"I think I ought to take her home," Aberforth said to nobody in particular. "She doesn't need to see any more of this." Up close, he looked less like his brother. Their coloring and build were the same, but he seemed rougher and more unkempt, gangly and awkward in a way that Albus was not, and clearly younger. He had outgrown his suit, and his sleeves ended a good couple of inches above his skinny wrists. Ariana clung to him like a drowning person. "Come on, Ariana," he said to her, and she inched away from him so that he could walk. Albus made no complaint, though he looked towards them as they departed.

"Again, thank you," he said to Bathilda. "Your help has been absolutely invaluable." Before she could say anything, he turned to Gellert and extended his hand. "And I apologize for not introducing myself properly to you, sir. Albus Dumbledore." He made a passable attempt at a smile.

"Gellert Grindelwald."

"I'm afraid I've got to be on my way," Bathilda interjected. "I've missed a deadline and I've got to keep writing or my publisher will have my head. Albus, if you need anything at all, please don't hesitate to ask."

"Thank you, Miss Bagshot; I shan't."

Bathilda left on foot, as there were still Muggles about. Gellert stayed where he was, and Albus looked towards him, slightly bemused, expecting him to leave with his great-aunt. Gellert was pleased to get Albus alone; he was eager to have someone besides Bathilda to talk to.

"Shall I accompany you home?" he asked.

"What _–_ oh, of course," said Albus. He and Gellert set off, not looking at one another. After a moment, Albus spoke again: "I'm sorry I lost my composure in front of you earlier."

"No, no, don't be," said Gellert. "Really, I think you reacted better than I did when I found my mother had died. I was at school, and I must have sobbed for days; my classmates wouldn't shut up about it for weeks."

"I'm sorry. Where are you from, if you don't mind me asking? I can't quite place your accent."

"Born and raised in Prague, though my father's a German and I believe my mother was of Hungarian Jewish extraction, and I attended Durmstrang so I may as well be a Russian."

"Ah - a Bohemian! Fascinating. Are you related to Bagshot?"

"She's my great-aunt. I got expelled a couple of weeks ago, so I came here and told her I was spending the summer with her. If you could, ahem, not repeat that." Gellert wasn't sure why he was telling him, of all people, at this time. He tugged at his collar; it was too stiff, too hot, too restricting.

"I shan't, but only on one condition: may I ask _why_?"

"That isn't really any of your business."

"Then perhaps we ought to make a quick detour to Bagshot's."

"Truly, Albus, you are a master of manipulation." The sarcasm drew another little smile from Albus.

"I can't imagine what could possibly get one expelled from Durmstrang. Please tell me you didn't _murder_ anyone," said Albus.

"Of course not. I'm no brute. And Durmstrang doesn't live up to even half of its reputation; it's not the bastion of the Dark Arts everyone seems to think it is. I used the Cruciatus Curse in a duel."

Albus said nothing, though his eyebrows rose quite magnificently. Gellert could have kicked himself; there was no reason he had to know that. "You had good reasons, I'm sure," said Albus. Gellert couldn't tell if he was being ironic or not.

"He insulted me," said Gellert. "I admit, in retrospect it does seem a bit harsh."

"Merlin's pants, what did he say?"

"He called me a mudblood. I suppose it's true - my mother was a Muggle, yes, but I have more than enough talent to make up for any impurities in my bloodline, I think."

"Oho, and he's modest, too. How charming."

"I'm not putting on airs; I'm merely being realistic about my abilities."

"Is that so?"

"We ought to sort this out properly. Meet me at Bagshot's tomorrow at noon and we'll duel. Bagshot tells me you're quite clever yourself, so it should be a fair fight."

"Excellent, although I should inform you that the Cruciatus Curse is illegal in Britain. Also, the use of it is uncreative and rather rude, regardless of the insults one's opponent yells in the heat of battle."

"Oh, well if it's _rude_, I won't use it."

"That's my house over there," said Albus, pointing at the little cottage, which looked even more pitiful now than it had looked when it was on fire. "Until tomorrow, then, Gellert."

"Until tomorrow, Albus."

Albus smiled and went up the path to his home, leaving Gellert to wonder what exactly he had agreed to.


	5. Their Morals and Ours

A/N: I've added a chapter at the beginning. Also, Gellert is totally that kid who skimmed _Thus Spoke Zarathrusta_ and now thinks he's a ~*philosopher*~. Poor Albus.

–

Albus Apparated into Bathilda's backyard at precisely twelve-fifteen the next day, where Gellert was sprawled cross-legged on the grass, reading. Albus doffed his cap and made apologies for his tardiness ("I had to make a dramatic escape from Aberforth's clutches. If he had his way I would be scrubbing dishes till kingdom come."), and the two exchanged pleasantries, made their way to opposite ends of the yard, and drew their wands.

"So," said Gellert. "At Durmstrang, we had only two rules: there are no limitations on the methods one can use, and the first to be knocked off his feet loses."

"I'll add a corollary: nothing illegal. I don't want to be arrested, thank you very much. Also, if you lose, you have to buy me sherbet lemons."

"Sherbet _whats_?"

"You don't have sherbet lemons in Austria-Hungary or Russia? How terrible! They're a kind of candy, by the way." Albus struck first, sending a bolt of crackling violet light right towards Gellert, who dodged it. Behind him, a tree leapt several feet into the air, roots dangling, and soared backwards, landing with a thump and the sound of splintering branches. Upstairs, a window opened and Bathilda peered out, a pair of spectacles perched so low on her nose that they looked as if they were about to fall off. She saw their wands and the overturned tree, and shot a rather sour look at both boys.

"What on earth are you two doing?" she asked.

"Duelling," said Gellert, offering what he hoped was a winning smile.

"Well, for Merlin's sake, be _quiet_ and don't let any Muggles see you." She withdrew from the window and shut it behind her without waiting for a response.

"So concerned with Muggles," said Gellert, dealing a hex of his own invention which Albus blocked neatly with a large rock he had conjured. "Can't you just use a Memory Charm?"

"I hear they can be highly damaging if cast poorly." Albus sent the rock whizzing past Gellert's head.

"Are you even trying to hit me?" asked Gellert. "And why do you care?"

"About the Muggles?"

"Yes, about the Muggles _–_ ow!" Gellert swore loudly as the rock turned around mid-flight and hit him squarely in the back of his head.

"I don't, but the Ministry of Magic does. And do you know what the Muggles would do to us if they knew that we existed?"

Gellert hit Albus with a hex that caused his longish nose to bleed profusely; Albus staunched it and conjured a cloud of bees above his opponent's head. Gellert dispersed them with a fluid flick of his wrist and said, "One needn't obey unjust laws."

"Unjust? Hardly. It's easier to just to avoid being seen by Muggles."

"I hate that _we're_ the ones who need to hide. Look at us, sneaking around like animals, unable to retaliate when they abuse us, when we're quite clearly the superior being." He paused to shield himself from some unfamiliar charm Albus had used. "Though I suppose you know better than I."

"I agree. It's sickening. And the Muggles abuse each other, too, and we can do nothing. They suffer from diseases we eliminated centuries ago, and all we can do is stand idly by and watch for fear that they'll round us up and burn us."

"You're too kind to them."

"It's only worst sort of Muggle I dislike. A lot of them are a bit stupid, but harmless, for the most part. In a perfect world, there would be no International Statue of Secrecy, and we could rule over the ones who need us and lock up the kind of Muggles who think it's great fun to beat a six-year-old witch within an inch of her life."

"Those boys who did that to your sister . . . they were never prosecuted, were they?"

Albus shook his head. "My father dealt them a few curses, but the Ministry of Magic did nothing, of course. Those Muggles escaped without any lasting damage. Obviously, the same cannot be said of my sister." He used the same violently purple spell Gellert had avoided earlier; this time, it hit Gellert's chest and lifted him off his feet and sent him toppling backwards into a rosebush. "I believe that means I win," Albus said calmly.

Gellert extricated himself from the rosebush and stood. "I like the way you duel, Albus," he said. "And the way you think, for that matter."

Albus looked Gellert over and frowned. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"

"No, not at all." Gellert's cheek was smarting, and when he reached up to touch it he felt the outline of a scratch, but nothing more. "That rosebush did some damage, though." He paused. "Oh damn, I have to buy you those sherbet candies now, don't I?"

"Don't worry, I'll let you have some," said Albus. His eyes were bright, and he was flushed and breathing heavily. Gellert always thought of duelling as a sort of intellectual exercise, but there was a lot of dodging and jumping around that could make it quite tiring.

Gellert sat and laid his head against the garden wall, shutting his eyes and smiling a little. Albus joined him. It was not as unseasonably hot as it had been the day before, which was actually a blessing.

"Have you ever heard of the Deathly Hallows, Albus?" Gellert asked, opening his eyes and looking towards his new-found sort-of friend, who was staring absentmindedly at him.

"Yes, of course," he said. "It was my favourite story growing up. Did you know there was a man here who lived here ages ago who was rumoured to be one of the three brothers?"

"Ignotus Peverell? Yes, I saw his grave."

"That's him. Fascinating stuff, isn't it?"

"It is. Shame he's the one with the least interesting Hallow, though."

"I know. I've always thought the Resurrection Stone was the best of the three."

"Really? I'd prefer the Elder Wand."

Albus laughed. "Isn't it odd how we want the Hallows that brought the most grief to their owners in the story?"

"Ah, I'd like to think we've outgrown children's morality tales. They used their gifts poorly _–_ I won't."

"True, very true. But even children's morality tales have an element of truth to them, I think."

"I suppose. As long as we use them wisely, I think we should be fine. Imagine what we could accomplish! That 'perfect world' you mentioned ..."

" 'We'?"

"Well, speaking hypothetically _–_ "

"Could two people possess all three Hallows together?"

"I don't know. I suppose if two people can hold absolute power together, two people can be 'masters of death' together."

"We could be the 'Duumvirate of Death.' No, that sounds ridiculous."

Gellert snorted. "No, really, I'm glad I've found someone with whom I can discuss this seriously. Bathilda thinks I'm a bit mad for looking for them. So did everyone at Durmstrang."

"It's odd, there's so much evidence for them. Apparently, some Galician wandmaker _–_ his name escapes me at the moment _–_ claims to have found an unbeatable wand; assuming he's not just trying to drum up business, that could be a lead."

"This wandmaker isn't from Lvov, is he?" Gellert asked.

"Lvov? Now that you mentioned it, I think he is _–_"

Gellert cut him off. "I think I know him!" he exclaimed. "His name's Gregorovitch. Every wizard from Vienna to Vladivostok has one of his wands, myself included."

"So you've met him?"

"I have! I haven't heard of this Elder Wand rumour; it must be recent."

"I doubt you would have heard of it. Gregorovitch apparently bragged about it to our wandmaker here in England."

"Really? How do you know?"

"I'm on friendly terms with our wandmaker and we sometimes write to each other. He mentioned it to me in a letter he sent about a year ago."

"I certainly hope Gregorovitch isn't exaggerating," said Gellert. "Do you still have the letter?"

"I do, and I'll send it to you, if you'd like to see it." Albus stood, and, brushing himself off, said: "I'm sorry to say this, but I should probably be going now. I told Aberforth I would be back by half-past one, and I'm sure it's past that by now."

Gellert stood, too, and shook his hand. "I would love to see the letter, and I don't mind at all. We've got to do this again; you're quite a duellist."

"You are as well, if I may say so myself."

They said their goodbyes, and Albus departed as quickly as he had come. He seemed a bit soft and bit flighty, Gellert thought, but he was far and above the best company Gellert had had in weeks, years, even, and Gellert found himself rather disappointed to be alone again.

–

That evening, after supper, a wheezy old barn owl with a roll of parchment in its beak tapped on Gellert's window. He prized the letters _–_ there were two, actually _–_ from its beak.

_Gellert_, read the first.

_Here's the letter. _

_ –_ _Albus_

Albus and the wandmaker, a Mr. Gervaise Olivander, were apparently in the midst of a discussion on wandlore, which Gellert found achingly dull, so he only skimmed the letter. Towards the end of it, Olivander did mention Gregorovich's claim, though he had a few harsh words about both the other wandmaker and his claim. Still, it was a lead, and Gellert, thrilled and overtaken by a sort of restless, itchy excitement, wrote back:

_Albus –_

_Incredible! Your friend seems to think Gregorovitch is lying through his teeth, but I think it's still worth a trip to Lvov. _

_ – Gellert _

_P.S. Bathilda says you've been writing to her for years. Who among the British Wizarding intelligentsia aren't you on 'friendly terms' with?_

He sent his letter back to Albus along with his owl, and received a reply hardly more than five minutes later:

_Gellert – _

_Yes, I think we ought to have a chat with Gregorovitch. Even if it's just a rumour, he may know something we don't. Not now, however; I can't leave Ariana or Aberforth on their own. Also, I know what you said about the "Tale of the Three Brothers" being a children's morality story, but I couldn't help __thinking about it – harm came to the brothers because they attempted to outwit Death. It's only a story, obviously, but even so, we aren't trying to collect the Hallows to satisfy our own selfish needs, are we? We wish to have them in order to raise the standing of all of wizardkind. We seek power as a MEANS TO AN END – that, I think, makes all the difference. _

– _Albus_

_P.S. A few._

_P.P.S. Don't forget the sherbet lemons. _

Albus seemed never to sleep; over the course of the next several days, which stretched into weeks, Gellert would frequently be woken in the middle of the night by the tapping of that ragged barn owl, not that he minded at all. Whenever a thought occurred to him, he wrote it down and sent it off as well, and it seemed that the two could not pass more than a couple of hours without writing to one another or speaking to him in person. Bathilda, mildly impressed by the frequency and volume of the boys' correspondence, told Gellert one evening that she knew the two of them would get along well. The summer solstice slipped by; neither Gellert nor Albus noticed.

_Albus __–_

_It's true, Muggles and wizards alike seem to have this idea that no one ever seeks power for unselfish reasons. Well, I must admit __it would give me quite a thrill to see our names in _A History of Magic_, but I would be more than willing to sacrifice myself in order to construct a world in which witches and wizards ruled over Muggles. _

– _Gellert_

_P.S. Here are your __sherbet lemons. Not bad, but a bit sweet for my tastes._

* * *

><p><em>Gellert –<em>

_Thank you for the sherbert lemons. I too would be perfect__ly willing to sacrifice myself for the common good. Have you heard of a sort of Muggle philosophy called Utilitarianism? It posits that the most moral action is the one that benefits the many over the few. _

– _Albus_

* * *

><p><em>Albus –<em>

_Ah, Jeremy Bentham! Quite __perceptive, for a Muggle. My father adores him. Why are all of the best philosophers Muggles? And why are there a hundred Muggles with all of the cleverness & moral strength of pigs for each Bentham or Mill or Nietzsche? I don't understand it._

_ –__ Gellert_

* * *

><p><em>Gellert –<em>

_Neither do I, Gellert. Neither do I. But I would include __Nietzsche amongst the "pigs"; he's a pompous git. He loathes compassion, empathy, mercy: this is dangerous, particularly when coming from a Muggle. _

_ –__ Albus _

* * *

><p><em>Albus – <em>

_So we aren't ideological twins after all! Such a pity, th__ough perhaps we can learn from another. Nietzsche rejects __common Muggle morality__, despite being a Muggle. We are above such concepts; we must reject the sort of baseless pity for Muggles that has rotted the European Wizarding governments to their cores. This sort of pity is what allowed the Muggles who nearly murdered your poor sister to go free, while your father languishes in prison for merely attempting to avenge your sister because the Ministry of Magic was too cowardly to do so. And Albus – we are the overmen! We are above their ordinary concerns, their childish moral standards. Even the lowliest wizard is more powerful than any Muggle tsar or king, and yet we are subservient to them! Imagine what the world would be like if we established our rightful dominance over them: no longer would we live in fear of being discovered. No longer would they be able to torment us without fear of retribution because we are bound by our own laws & cowardice. And of course, wizard rule would also benefit them. 'Imperialism' is a Muggle concept. Wizards have no need of invading other countries and exploiting their people. We go to war far less often than they the poorest among us have enough to eat and can send their children to school instead of the factories or the fields. We have no poorhouses. Our workers are not exploited. Our women have the same rights as our men. We are above that. We are above __everything__. _

_ – Gellert_

The heat wave never broke; in fact, it only intensified as summer wore on. One afternoon in mid-July, Gellert traipsed across town to Albus' house in his shirtsleeves, not caring particularly if anyone saw him or not. It was too hot to care. The sun was low, the shadows long, and the air was stagnant and smelled faintly of something sweet and rotten. Albus had been uncharacteristically quiet; usually he came by Bathilda's in the morning and his replies to Gellert's night-time letters came minutes after Gellert had sent them off, but he hadn't written or dropped by since the day before, and Gellert was already beginning to grow bored.

It had been weeks since the fire, but the Dumbledores' house still looked, to put it lightly, like hell. A wide swathe of the facade was still blackened, as if it had been beaten, and all of it: the roof, the entire exterior, was crumbling and absolutely abject and pitiful. The window to Ariana's room gaped open, but Gellert could see nothing but darkness inside. He wondered how Albus, so careful and composed in his speech and dress, could stand to live inside such a place, and why he hadn't bothered to repair any of the damage. Had he not been able to do so? Gellert had heard that cursed injuries were difficult or entirely impossible to heal, and perhaps the same held true for inanimate things, and whatever Ariana had done was impossible to undo, even for Albus. Still, if Gellert had been in his place, he would have just sold the whole mess or just burnt it to the ground completely. Gellert rang the bell and waited. Someone inside was shouting; Gellert couldn't make out what he was going on about, but he was sure it was Aberforth doing the screaming. Albus was either not responding at all, or he was being so quiet that Gellert couldn't hear him. Gellert lingered on the doorstep for a few minutes, but eventually he grew sick of waiting and opened the door himself.

"Albus?" he called. The foyer smelled strongly of mildew and long-since dissipated smoke.

"Who's there?" came a voice: Aberforth, looking dour and unkempt, peered out from a door near Gellert, startling both of them. "Oh," he said before Gellert could answer. "It's you. I don't know how they do it where you come from, but you can't just barge into people's houses."

"I rang the bell," said Gellert. "I'm looking for Albus. Is he home?"

"Oi! Albus!" Aberforth hollered. "Your friend's come calling." With a crack, Albus appeared suddenly before them; Gellert swore he could have heard Aberforth mutter something that sounded like "show-off" beneath his breath.

Albus looked faintly tired, but he grinned, and said, "Well, hello, Gellert."

"Let's go the cemetery," said Gellert. "I've found something I want to show you." He grabbed Albus by the forearm and dragged him outside into the street.

"Not Ignotus Peverell's grave," Albus said as they walked. "I've seen it about a million times already."

"It's not that, I promise."

"Oh, well. Now I'm curious."

Gellert let go of Albus' arm and the two walked in silence for a little while. It was later than Gellert had thought, nearly evening, by the looks of it. After a moment, he spoke: "Are you all right? I missed you today and you look horrid, if you don't mind me saying so."

"I'm fine," said Albus. "Ariana had a fit last night. I didn't sleep well, that's all."

"I'm sorry. Albus, you aren't planning on playing nursemaid to your siblings forever, are you?"

"No. Not for long, anyway. Aberforth has two years left at Hogwarts; when's he's finished, I'll leave, and he can take care of her. Not that he's going to be happy about that, either, but I have more important things to do."

"Can't you just put Ariana in a hospital?"

Albus shook his head. "My mother was quite adamant about that."

"Not to be blunt, but she's not really in a position to do anything about it now, is she?"

"Gellert, you are the bluntest person I know. Possibly more so than Aberforth, and that's quite an accomplishment." He paused, chewing his lip. "The hospital we have here _–_ St. Mungo's _– _is an awful, awful place. I can't condemn my little sister to an eternity there _–_ I could never live with myself. It's only two years, Gellert. The Hallows won't go anywhere in two years."

"I should hope not. I'll wait for you."

"You'd better. So, what is it you want to show me?"

"Be patient." They had reached the church, with its little kissing gate leading to the cemetery. Gellert told hold of Albus by the wrist and pulled him through it, past a row of gravestones in varying states of repair, some very recent, others left so, to the corner where Ignotus Peverell was buried.

"I told you, I've already seen Peverell's grave _–_ "

"And I told you, it isn't that," said Gellert. "Look at the grave next to the most recently deceased Peverell son. I can't believe neither of us noticed this."

Albus peered down at the gravestone Gellert had indicated. "Hortense Potter," he read. "What about her?"

"I think she's a Peverell! Look at the dates _–_ she was born two years after Honorius Peverell, and she's buried right next to him. It may be a reach, but I think she could be his sister."

"I know a Potter," said Albus. "He lives next door. Perhaps we could see if he has any family records _–_ Gellert, if she turns out to be a Peverell . . ." He looked up at him. His pale-blue eyes were wide behind his pince-nez, and the fading light had caught a few stray reddish-brown hairs and turned them to gold. His eyelashes were dark, though, and very long; Gellert had never noticed that before. "And I like to think I'm clever. You're _brilliant_," said Albus, and before Gellert could react or say anything, Albus had leaned forward and kissed him somewhat clumsily. He pulled away so quickly that Gellert was left wondering if it had happened at all, or if he had only imagined it _– _the silence was very, very long, so heavy it was almost a tangible thing; Gellert wasn't sure what to think, let alone what to say, wondering how had he never noticed _that_ _–_

"No, Albus," he said finally. "I'm sorry."

"Oh, hell _–_ I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I thought _–_ misinterpreted _–_ oh, never mind," said Albus hurriedly, looking away. "Shall we, ah, disregard that, then? Agree that it never happened?"

"Yes," said Gellert. "Yes, I think that would be best." The silence had crept up between them again, but in the midst of it, a thought came to Gellert _–_ he took hold of Albus' collar, pulled him forward, and kissed him again. It was longer this time; Gellert's heart was pounding, and it seemed to be beating somewhere in the vicinity of his throat.

"What are you doing?" asked Albus. He had flushed a shade of scarlet that clashed horribly with his hair.

"Nothing," said Gellert. He could hardly breathe, let alone speak; his voice and throat were choked with a heavy, sticky, indefinable emotion; he wanted badly to cough, but instead he managed to force out a sentence: "Listen, I wanted to tell you, there was a line in your most recent letter I found fascinating: "We must seize control for the greater good." I agree wholeheartedly, and couldn't have phrased it better myself . . ."


	6. As Long As I Breathe I Hope

Gellert walked home in a daze, feeling numb and oddly dizzy. Bathilda, who was sitting at the table reading a periodical whilst a knife chopped carrots and potatoes in a steady, flashing rhythm behind her, noticed that something was up, and asked him if he felt all right.

"Yes, yes, I'm fine," he said, rather hurriedly, passing her by for the stairs without so much as looking at her.

"Oh, Gellert," she called, and he stopped, his hand on the banister. "An owl came for you earlier today."

"From whom?" he asked, turning to face her.

"I don't know," she said, withdrawing a small white envelope from her robes and passing it to him. "It was a rather large great-horned owl, if that rings any bells."

He took the envelope and looked it over, finding no indication of who had written it. "It doesn't," he said, turning to go upstairs. "Don't bother calling me for supper; I'm not hungry," he added.

"Suit yourself," Bathilda said, returning to her periodical.

Once upstairs, Gellert opened the envelope, and with a start, realized it was in German, penned in a familiar scraggly hand:

_My dear son,_

_Where are you? The term ended weeks ago, but I haven't heard anything from you for months, nor have I received any word from your school. I bought an owl just to send this to you; I hear they can find a person anywhere. Please tell me you are safe, and please send word of your location as soon you are able. I feel you do not wish for me to come and find you, but it would bring me peace to know where you are and that you are safe. _

_All my love, _

_Gerulf_

Gellert tore the letter to shreds and threw what was left of it into the dustbin. He felt tense and itchy, and once again he found himself unable to think properly; he paced the length of his room with his hands behind his back, unable to sit down, either. Eventually he did, and took a scrap of parchment and a quill, though he could not put a word to paper. His quill hovered uselessly over the table; even if he had been able to name the sentiments he wished to express, he could not find the proper words. He spoke a tacky hodgepodge of Czech and German at home, and he hadn't been there for nearly a year, so his skill at both languages had lapsed somewhat. After a few minutes of mental fumbling, he wrote:

_Papa __–_

_I am in England. I am safe. Please do not coming looking for me, and please do not try to contact me again. _

– _Gellert_

He folded it up, tucked it in the talons of Bathilda's owl, and bid her take it to his father in Prague. He stared upwards at the slanted, slatted ceiling, though his mind was off in a sort of fog, and he didn't actually see it. He was not sure what to do, and he did not feel like himself at all. He expected he would receive a reply soon, in which his father would prostrate himself at his son's feet and beg him to come home. It was vulgar, shameless, weak.

And already Gellert was beginning to wonder if he had made a mistake with Albus: in the moment, he had thought he could use the other boy's affection to his own advantage, use it to bind him to his will. He had done it with a girl or two before, while he was still at Durmstrang. With them, he had never so much as kissed them or intended for things to go anywhere; he only led them on, flirting half-heartedly with them so that they would run errands for him or defend him in arguments, silly things like that. He could have kicked himself for not noticing what Albus thought of him beforehand. If he had realized it, he would have pulled him along, playing as if he were completely unaware of the other boy's affections. It was always more enticing when there was only a faint _–_ but definite_–_ prospect that something would start; now that things actually had started, there was a very real possibility that they would _end_, and Gellert would be left with a former lover with a grudge and no allegiance to him whatsoever.

He would find a way to sort things out. He always did.

–

Gellert awoke the next morning to Bathilda knocking at his door. Bleary-eyed, he stumbled out of bed, into wakefulness, and towards the door.

"I hope didn't wake you," she said. Gellert thought it was pretty obvious that she had, but he didn't say anything. "Albus is downstairs in the kitchen. He said he wants to see you."

"Oh _–_ all right," said Gellert. "Tell him I'll be down in a minute." Bathilda nodded and left him to dress and wonder what on earth would lead his friend to call at this hour.

Downstairs, Albus was drinking tea and reading the _Daily Prophet_. "Good morning, Gellert!" he announced, setting the paper aside and crossing his hands beneath his chin. Gellert bid him the same, and slid into the chair across from him. "My goodness, you sleep late," said Albus, flicking his wand lazily, sending the teapot and cup scurrying across the table.

"What time is it?" Gellert asked, still somewhat groggy.

"Nearly eleven," said Albus cheerfully.

"I don't usually sleep this late," Gellert said, smoothing his hair, attempting uselessly to keep a curl from sticking straight up from his forehead.

"Well, anyway," said Albus, leaning forward a little and lowering his voice. "I was thinking about yesterday _–_" Gellert opened his mouth to interrupt him, mindful of what his great-aunt might hear, but Albus took note of his expression and continued quickly, " _–_ not about _that_. And besides, I don't think Bathilda would mind much. I don't know what they think about that sort of thing in Austria-Hungary or Russia, but only Muggles and the more venomous pureblood sort would take offence here. I was thinking about the possibility that Hortense Potter was born a Peverell. I think we ought to ask Potter himself."

"Today?"

"Yes, of course, unless you're opposed to the idea for some reason."

"No, not at all! Let me eat something and then we can go."

The Potters' house was the same relative size and shape of the Dumbledores' house, though it was in much better condition. A slim mousy-haired woman in a straw hat and a dress with enormous leg-of-mutton sleeves was on her hands and knees in the garden, pulling weeds. When she saw the boys, she stood, brushing her hands off on the front of her apron.

"Albus!" she called. "How are you?"

"Quite well, Mrs. Potter," he said, and Gellert looked around idly whilst they exchanged pleasantries and made small-talk.

"So sorry, but I don't believe we've been introduced," said Mrs. Potter, startling Gellert.

"Gellert Grindelwald, Bathilda Bagshot's great-nephew. I'm staying here for the summer."

"Oh, splendid. Julia Potter," she said, and turned her attention back towards Albus: "Did you need something, Albus?"

"I have a rather strange question," he said. "Are you related to a Hortense Potter? She would have passed away generations ago? I believe she was married to a John Potter, if that sounds familiar."

Mrs. Potter frowned. "I wouldn't know," she said after a moment. "William might, though. Here, come inside and I'll fetch him." She led the two into the little house and disappeared up the stairs, leaving Albus and Gellert in the parlour. A black-haired little girl was reading a picture book; she looked up and scowled at Albus and Gellert over the top of it, apparently displeased to have been interrupted. Albus said hello and smiled warmly, and Gellert busied himself inspecting the photographs and paintings of Potters long since deceased on the wall. Someone came down from upstairs, footsteps creaking; Gellert looked up and saw the familiar dark-haired and lanky form of William Potter. Once again, Albus made polite chit-chat and Gellert wondered how on earth he could stand having to repeat the same silly, insipid little details over and over and over again. Thankfully, no one seemed to expect Gellert to say much of anything.

"Julia tells me you want to know if I'm related to a woman named Hortense Potter," said Mr. Potter coolly. "May I ask why?"

"Mere curiosity," said Albus. "Gellert and I find the history of Godric's Hollow quite fascinating, and we're researching some of the old pureblood families."

Mr. Potter crossed his arms over his chest. "She was a relative of mine," Mr. Potter said. "Died a long time ago, of course."

Gellert said, "I heard a rumour that she was born a Peverell _–_ is that true?"

"Does it matter?" asked Mr. Potter, and Gellert wondered why he was being so prickly.

"Not really _–_" said Albus, but Mr. Potter cut him off. His daughter had retreated behind her picture book again.

"Then I suggest you mind your own business," said Mr. Potter. "And I say this out of kindness, Albus. You really ought not to get into to this. I'm sure you have better things to do."

"Not really," said Albus. "Please, just tell us, if you would: was Hortense Potter a Peverell?"

"You said it didn't matter."

Gellert tried to draw his wand as discreetly as possible, but Albus saw him before William did, and caught his wrist. Gellert shot him a look, but put it back in his pocket.

"Now, I'm sorry if I wasn't clear before, but I suggest you two leave this house."

"Of course," said Albus, leading Gellert out by his wrist. "I'm sorry we bothered you."

Mr. Potter, ever the polite one, slammed the door behind them.

"Well, that could have gone better," Albus said quite matter-of-factly.

"What on earth was wrong with him?" said Gellert.

Albus shrugged. "Perhaps other treasure-seekers have come calling before, and he's sick of it."

Gellert frowned. "How impolite."

The two left the house, setting off nowhere in particular. It was Saturday, and in spite of the heat, quite a few townsfolk were out and about in the street, fanning themselves or wiping their foreheads with sodden handkerchiefs. Gellert and Albus killed time by trying to guess which among them were Muggles _–_ Albus maintained that there was no sure way to tell, but Gellert insisted he could see it in the way they dressed and carried themselves _–_ of course, neither could come to an agreement about anyone they saw. Gellert felt as if there were an uncomfortable closeness between himself and Albus, something invisible to them but obvious to everyone else, wizard and Muggle alike. Albus seemed blissfully unaware, but Gellert was painfully conscious of every word, every look that passed between them, how they could be construed. Albus suggested they go down to the cemetery; it was shady there, and quiet _–_ and they could be alone, though that went unsaid.

Someone had laid a handful fennel on a grave towards the front of the cemetery, but besides that, the graves were as lonely and barren as ever. Gellert was beginning to wonder if anyone ever actually bothered to visit their loved ones here. Then again, he realized he didn't know where his own mother was even buried, so perhaps he wasn't in the position to judge. Albus plopped down beneath the chestnut tree and crossed his legs at the knee. Gellert joined him. They sat very close together, not touching but hardly inches apart, hands and shoulders and hips and legs aligned along an axis that separated the two of them.

"I want to ask you something about yesterday. It may be a bit impertinent _–_"

"What is it?" Gellert asked.

"You said no, at first, and you changed the subject awfully quickly. I hope I haven't pushed you into anything; that is, assuming, you actually are willing _–_ " said Albus.

"No, no, not at all!" said Gellert. "I mean, I am willing. I do like you. I was just surprised, that's all."

"Well," said Albus. "I'm sure you understand that a man whose circumstances have been as unpleasant as mine have been the past few weeks would be rather stunned to have stumbled upon such good luck. Anyway, not to change the subject quickly or anything, but I think we ought to put off looking for the cloak for the time being. If Potter has it, he's not going to give it up without some convincing, which we don't have the clout to do right now."

"Why did you stop me?" Gellert asked.

"What do you mean?"

"I could have made him give it to us."

"We don't even know if he has it, Gellert. It's just a theory. I say we ought to go after the Elder Wand first, which should aid us in collecting the rest of the Hallows. I'm going to try and convince Aberforth to look after Ariana for a little while so that we can go to Lvov. If I am the head-of-household, he really ought to do what I tell him to do."

"You can _make_ him do what you want him to do, you know," said Gellert.

"If I won't let you use the Imperius Curse on my neighbour, what makes you think I'm going to use it on my own brother? Besides, it's _–_"

"Illegal. I know. You and your _laws_. You're so scrupulous; it's absolutely charming. Surely you can excuse a little law-breaking in the name of a noble cause."

"Stubborn, surly git as he may be, he is still my brother and I'm not going to use any sort of dark magic on him. Perhaps we could just send an owl to Gregorovich."

"And say what? 'Sir, we hear you have an unbeatable wand; will you sell it to us?' We need to meet with him in person."

"I suppose you're right. If Aberforth doesn't relent by _– _oh, say, my birthday _–_ we'll go to Lvov regardless of what he says or does."

"When's your birthday?"

"August 21."

"Very well. That gives us about five weeks, yes?"

Albus nodded. "My brother is right about one thing," he said. "I can't leave Ariana by herself."

"Perhaps Bathilda will take her. I'll ask."

"I don't know." Albus frowned. "I'm not sure if it would be a good arrangement for either her or Ariana. But, Gellert, don't worry: I'm sure shall think of something."

"You must." Gellert moved closer and laid his head against Albus' bony shoulder. "After Lvov," he said, "I think we ought to go to Saint Petersburg."

"To try and drum up political support?"

"Exactly. There are a handful of parties in favour of abolishing the Statute of Secrecy and establishing wizard dominance _–_"

" _–_ or abolishing Muggle rule _–_ " Albus interrupted.

"Quite right. None of the parties is particularly powerful and all they do is squabble amongst themselves. We ought to form our own, and see if we can join with any of the better ones. I know a few people in Saint Petersburg who can help. I think Eastern Europe will be especially receptive of our ideas, if the political climate of Durmstrang is anything to go by."

"Excellent. We ought write a manifesto, a programme of some sort, and we need a name, a symbol, a slogan _–_ "

"We've got a symbol! The Deathly Hallows!"

"Of course _–_ how did I not think of that?" said Albus. "Though I've got a slogan _–_ 'for the greater good.' Can you imagine that on banners? Pamphlets? In books? Engraved on the wall of the Ministry of Magic?"

"It's brilliant. Perfect. But, oh, there won't be any Ministry of Magic _–_ we'll have a worldwide all-Wizarding government. We'll all be united under one slogan, one flag, one great idea that raises us above all else _–_ "

"And we will lead the revolution!" said Albus. "Even without the Hallows, we are the most powerful wizards of our generation _–_ with them, we will be _–_ "

"Absolutely unstoppable."

"Exactly."


	7. The Death of the Dream

Albus said the same thing every day: _Aberforth is, as always, unrelenting._

And Gellert would answer: _well, you've got five weeks. Four weeks. _

On the first of August, he said, "_Gott in Himmel! _It's the first of August. Three weeks. We're leaving in three weeks." It was nearly nightfall, and they were in Albus' room (Gellert hated the dust and the peeling wallpaper and the lingering smell of smoke, but it was the only place where they could be alone and had a door that locked), sprawled side-by-side on the floor, hands together, Albus enchanting little scraps of parchment to fly around like birds, for no reason besides the fact that he was bored. They had spent all day hunched over the draft of their political programme, but as of yet they had met with little success. Gellert would add some word or phrase, and Albus would cross it out, and vice-versa; they stumbled over each other and themselves, unable to properly put in writing what they wanted to say.

"Yes, I think we should," said Albus, watching one of his paper-birds dive and swoop in the dusty air. "Do you have a family, Gellert, or did you just spring into being fully-grown?"

"What makes you say that?" said Gellert.

"Well, won't they wondering about you if you run off to search for the Elder Wand? I remember you mentioned your mother passed away some time ago, but _–_ "

"No," said Gellert. "My father's a Muggle-loving bastard, and he wants nothing to do with our world. He married one. Now he mends their clothes."

"But surely he still cares for you."

"I think he does. He wrote me a letter a couple of weeks ago asking where I was. I don't care for him, though, so it doesn't matter."

"Callous," said Albus.

"I haven't any use for him; he only gets in my way." Gellert turned his head and kissed him where his ear met the curve of his jaw. "Like your brother."

"At least your father can support himself."

"True." He raised himself up on one elbow, leaned over Albus, and kissed him; the paper-bird fell to the floor. "How are we going to deal with dissenters? We haven't talked much about that."

"I don't know," said Albus. It was hard to talk like this; they were so close their noses were almost touching.

"There aren't any spells to eliminate large numbers of people at once, are there?" Gellert asked.

"Why on earth are you wondering about that now?" said Albus. "The only killing curse I know is _Avada Kedavra. _I imagine most of those against our regime would be Muggles, though. They attempt to overthrow us with conventional weaponry; I see no need for us to retaliate with magic. In fact, I see no reason to use violence against them at all. Perhaps we could find some way to re-educate them."

"That never works. We need to eradicate them fully. 'Never do any enemy a small injury, for they are like a snake which is half beaten, and it will strike back the first chance it gets.' "

Albus sat up, pushing Gellert off his chest. "Machiavelli," he said. "I will never cease to be amazed by the amount of Muggle philosophy you read. Don't you remember what I said in that letter I wrote? We should use no more force than is absolutely necessary. We aren't murderers, Gellert, and this isn't the French Revolution; there's no need and no justification to haul out the guillotine."

"We won't use any _unnecessary_ force. This is a war, a revolution: some people must die."

"If you say so. Your intensity is admirable, but I must admit that I find it a little frightening at times."

"Look at this," Gellert said, leaning back against Albus' bed and running a hand through his mass of tangled blond curls: "We've already begun to have serious disagreements about policy."

Albus chuckled. "Such is the curse of all revolutionary movements. I know how you feel, Gellert, I really do; I wish those boys who did what they did to my sister were in Azkaban and not my father, but I would never want to see them murdered. Even they don't deserve that."

"I suppose that's true," said Gellert.

"We must never stop debating. I like it." Albus took off his pince-nez, set them aside, and leaned in to kiss Gellert, who put his arms around his waist; the two slid to the floor, pulling the quilt on Albus' bed down with them. Albus' hands had somehow become tangled in Gellert's hair; though thin, he seemed heavy, and Gellert could hardly breathe for the weight of his body _–_

"Albus _–_ oh, hell," said Aberforth. Gellert wondered where he came from, how he managed to be standing there in the doorway, above the two of them, looking decidedly confused. Albus rolled off of Gellert, fumbled for his pince-nez, put them on with one hand, and smoothed his hair with the other, as if that might somehow convince Aberforth that he had stumbled upon nothing. "Oh, Merlin's scrawny arse _–_ I-I'm sorry," Aberforth stammered.

"It isn't what you think!" said Gellert.

"No," said Albus. "It's exactly what you think."

"Well, it certainly explains a lot," Aberforth said. His face had gone from milk-white to faintly pink in a second. "Gellert, get out."

Gellert stood: "You have no right to tell me what to do."

"Well, I really can't bring myself to give a shit," said Aberforth tersely. He turned suddenly; Ariana, in a blue pinafore, her hair in disarray, had appeared behind him and tugged on his sleeve.

"Ari," he said. "Go back to your room."

"You're arguing," she said.

"Oh, Ariana, it's nothing," said Albus, rising from the floor and pushing past his brother to pat her on the shoulder. "No need to worry. Listen _–_ " he turned to Aberforth and, speaking quietly, continued: "I don't want to upset her."

"As if you even care," he hissed, but his brother had already begun to speak again:

"Gellert, we ought to leave."

"You wouldn't dare _–_ " Aberforth began.

"It won't be for long," Albus said calmly.

"Not this time," added Gellert.

"_Gellert_ -" Albus said sharply. He turned looked towards his brother: "It's late. I'm taking Gellert home."

"Fine," said Aberforth, scowling. "Really. Go. Get out. I don't care." He turned on his heel and stomped off into some other room, slamming the door behind him. Gellert almost wanted to laugh; it was one of the most ridiculous and non-threatening things he had ever seen. Albus grabbed Gellert's hand and marched him briskly down the stairs and outside into the warm and darkening evening.

"How can you stand him?" asked Gellert.

"He can be a bit trying, can't he?" said Albus, smiling. He looked exhausted; Gellert hadn't realized it earlier, but he could see the greyish smudges beneath his eyes, and how pale he had become. "Come on. Bagshot's probably wondering where you are." Albus laced his arm through Gellert's and they began the walk back to Bathilda's cottage. Gellert wondered how it looked, two boys arm-in-arm, but it didn't seem to trouble Albus and it was nearly dark, anyway. "You know," said Albus, after a moment. "Perhaps we don't need to find a place for Ariana to stay."

"What do you mean?" Gellert asked.

"We could bring her with us to Lvov. It may be a bit much to ask of you, but she'll be safer and happier with us than with Bagshot or in Saint Mungo's."

Gellert chewed his lip, thinking. "I don't know," he said after a moment. "That is an awful lot to ask."

"I know," said Albus. "But I'm afraid it's the only way I'll ever be able to leave this place. Aberforth should be pleased; he wants me to look after Ariana, but he never specified that I look after her _here_. Then again, I'm not entirely sure that Aberforth will agree to anything after tonight."

"I thought you said most wizards wouldn't have a problem with us."

"I don't think Aberforth has a problem with the concept in general, but I believe he thinks that I'm abandoning Ariana in favour of you. I don't know; I'll talk with him. He may be stubborn, but I'm sure he'll respond to logic."

"We could leave tonight, while he's asleep," said Gellert.

"Oh, he'll find us and he'll be furious, I can assure you. I think you underestimate my brother; he may get poor marks in school, but he's a fairly capable wizard. Look at the family he comes from. It would be better to try and reason with him. If he refuses after tonight, we'll leave regardless of what he says or does. I'll send you an owl and let you know."

"Tonight?"

"I don't see why not. Go home."

"This is incredible," said Gellert, his eyes wide and gleeful. "It's really happening, isn't it? I think I shall die of anticipation. Go home now, and write me as soon as you can."

–

Bathilda was neither downstairs nor in the spare bedroom, so Gellert assumed that she was in her own bedroom, despite the fact that it was still relatively early. She had left a meat pie with a slice cut from it on the kitchen table with a note that said to help himself. Gellert cut a large piece from it and ate it as he packed, sprawled across his bed and levitating his books and clothes and things into his trunk. He was bursting with excess energy and anticipation, and when he had finished packing, he paced back and forth across the narrow room, his eyes on the window, watching for the black speck of Albus' owl in the sky. It was a useless endeavour _–_ it would be too dark to see the old owl until it was on his windowsill, but he couldn't help himself from watching anyway.

After a while, he grew sick of pacing back and forth and flopped back down on his bed. He tried to read, but he found himself unable to concentrate. No matter what he did, his mind would wander back to Albus. Why hadn't he written yet? The energy subsided a little, replaced by a mild irritation, and beneath that, sleepiness. He could not sleep, either: he would not let himself. He took his quill and a piece of parchment and wrote: _what does Aberforth say?_, but he didn't send it, knowing Albus was probably caught up in an argument and couldn't write him. Still, the act of writing made him feel as if he were doing something useful. Finally, he could stand it no longer and Apparated to Albus' parlour, trunk in hand.

There was no one there. "Albus?" he called.

"What the bloody hell do _you_ want?" Aberforth, his sleeves rolled up to his skinny elbows, strode into the parlour from the kitchen. He was flushed with anger.

"There's no need to be sharp with me," said Gellert coolly.

"Gellert," said Albus, pushing past his brother. "Go home. You shouldn't be here." There was a chilly firmness in his voice that Gellert had never heard before.

"I take it he said no," said Gellert.

"I'm standing right here, you know," snapped Aberforth. "And you have no say in this, Gellert. I hate to admit it, but my brother's right: get the hell out."

"Shut up," hissed Gellert. "Albus, you said we would leave tonight, regardless what he said."

"He isn't leaving," said Aberforth. "Why is it that I have to be the responsible one here? I'm younger than you both!"

"This is the responsible option," protested Albus. "Ariana will be safer with us than with anyone else."

"If you stayed here, she would be," said Aberforth. "What if you two get arrested for trying to start some stupid revolution? What if Ariana gets sick or has another fit? What if a Muggle sees her?"

"Aberforth, we're doing this for her," said Albus. "We're going to avenge her. Avenge Mother and Father."

"No, you aren't," said Aberforth. "Maybe you believe all of the lies this _–_ this _–_" he gestured angrily towards Gellert, apparently unable to find a suitable insult - "Maybe you believe whatever he's telling you. I don't know. But don't pretend you're doing this for the 'greater good' or whatever you call it. You're doing this because you want people to get down at your feet and worship you. You don't give a shit about Ariana or Mum or Dad or me."

"Aberforth, that's a lie and you know it," said Albus. His face was pale and drawn.

"Your brother is the most selfless person I've ever met," said Gellert to Aberforth. "He is willing to give up everything in order to emancipate all of Wizardkind. You are an ignorant, petty, small-minded boy who can't _–_ who _refuses –_ to see two inches past the end of his nose. It isn't all about you and what you want. We must all make sacrifices to ensure a better future for Ariana and the countless girls like her, for your father and others who refused to bow down to an unjust and unfairly restrictive government _–_ "

"Don't you dare make my father a martyr for your cause!" cried Aberforth, whipping out his wand.

"Aberforth _–_ " Albus reached a hand out towards his brother, but his protest was lost beneath his brother's shouted stunning spell.

Gellert fell to his knees, dodging the red bolt of light and pulling his own wand from his waistcoat.

"No, Gellert," said Albus; Gellert looked up and saw that Albus' own wand was drawn and trained on his forehead.

"You can't," said Gellert, breathing heavily.

"I don't want to," said Albus.

"I _–_ " Gellert began, but something exploded next to him, showering him with dust and splinters.

"Aberforth, please!" cried Albus, attempting to stun his brother, who dodged his spell as Gellert had.

"You _are_ on his side!" Aberforth shouted, but his cry became a shriek of pain; he collapsed to the floor, his face even redder than before, his eyes clenched shut and his mouth wide open, pink and gaping. "Please _–_ stop it _–_ stop _–_ " he gasped, panting and fumbling for his wand, which had fallen from his hands.

Gellert advanced on him, wand trained on his crumpled body, and lifted a foot to kick Aberforth's wand away, but his own wand flew unexpectedly from his hand and clattered to the floor, feet away from him; he dove to catch it, and red light burst over his head. He snatched his wand up off the floor and flung his arm out, wordlessly casting a stunning spell of his own. The whole room was filled with red light, bright and hot; Gellert realized dimly that they must have all cast a stunning spell at once _–_

Ariana stood at the top of the stairs, her hand above the railing and one small foot poised above the next step, eyes wide with terror, their blue turned to an impossible violet in the red light. She seemed frozen there, cast in brilliant red; her eyes closed, fear faded from her face as the light faded and returned to its normal colour, and she tumbled forward. Gellert was transfixed, his wand still raised and pointed at where she had been seconds _–_ minutes _–_ ago. Ariana hit the floor with an impossibly loud thud, and it seemed to Gellert that she had Apparated to the bottom of the stairs, she had appeared there so quickly, though he knew that couldn't possibly be true.

"Ariana!" cried Aberforth, or possibly Albus; Gellert wasn't sure. Both of her brothers rushed to her side; Aberforth reached her first and held her head to his chest, calling her name over and over. Her blonde hair was matted with blood, and Albus was murmuring healing spells that did nothing. Aberforth pushed him away, shouting, and Gellert rose shakily to his feet.

"No, no," Albus said, pale as death and blinking back tears. "It's my fault." Aberforth could only cry and cling to his sister, as if holding her body would keep her there with them. Their grief was strange, bizarrely lurid, vulgar and somehow shameless. Gellert's chest was tight and there was a lump in his throat; he knew he had to leave, but something had rendered him immobile.

Albus, his pince-nez askew, looked up at him; Gellert stared back. Both were silent. Albus raised his wand and opened his mouth, but it was too late; Gellert only saw him out of the corner of his eye as he turned and Disapparated.


End file.
